The Moment She Left by Susan Lewis

relief that he didn’t seem about to follow, at least not right away. As his eyes came to hers she sensed how hard he was struggling with this and reached for his hand.
    ‘We’ll get through it,’ she promised.
    ‘I know that, but I just can’t stand seeing Dad so upset.’
    ‘He should be talking to me, not to you.’
    He nodded, keeping his head down, until eventually he looked at her again. ‘I want you to do whatever’s right for you,’ he said hoarsely.
    Surprised and touched, she said, ‘Thank you.’
    He shrugged and started for the door.
    ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said, ‘and thanks for trying to understand.’
    After he’d gone she stood at the window watching the street below until he came out of the building and started off towards the old town. She was so close to tears that her vision was blurred, and by the time she’d cleared it he’d turned a corner and disappeared.
    Taking a breath to steady herself she reached for her phone to call Martin, but before making the connection she clicked off again. Venting her anger at him for burdening the children with his feelings and using them to guilt-trip her wasn’t going to help the situation. Right now, she couldn’t think of anything that would, apart from time, so deciding to try and refocus her thoughts she opened her computer to check if there were any emails from Leo Johnson yet.
    Finding nothing, she deliberately didn’t try to read anything into it, since she knew very well that he had other priorities, and moving on she called up the names of the lead detectives who’d conducted the Manchester end of the search for Jessica. Maybe one of them could throw some light on Tyler Bennett’s whereabouts, just in case it was him hanging around the shop.

Chapter Seven
     
    Blake was sitting on the edge of Jessica’s bed staring at the project she’d put together, aged twelve, after he and Jenny had taken her and Matt to an Edvard Munch exhibition in London. She hadn’t done it for school, she’d done it for him because of his interest in the artist, carefully choosing Munch’s works and words in a way that had impressed him then, and could just about break his heart now. His mind, his very soul, were in the blackest depths of despair. He tried so hard not to go there, had learned over time that there were ways to avoid it, but there were other times, such as now, when it sucked him in like a helpless victim and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
    She was dead. He was never going to see her again. He’d never hear her laughter, her anger, her tears, her beautiful singing voice. There would be no more pride or fatherly fear for his girl; no more plans for the future, jokey reminiscences of the past, setting up for gigs, or arranging a wedding. They’d never paint pictures together again, or visit galleries or get excited about new talents, or share opinions, or spring surprises oneach other. The fear of her never returning to his world, the dread of it, was so consuming it stole the air from his lungs, crushed the very beat of his heart.
    He was asking himself if he’d been guided by some inexplicable fatherly instinct today to come and pick up this project, with its postcard of The Scream on the front, because she was trapped somewhere, screaming for him to come and find her.
    Jess, Jess, Jess, he cried silently, desperately, as though he were answering her desperate plea.
    There was no answering cry. There was only a voice from the past, hers, apologising for some silly falling-out they’d had. ‘I’m sorry I got so mad,’ she said tearfully. ‘I didn’t mean any of what I said. Please don’t be hurt. You know I love you all the way round the world and back again.’
    All the way round the world and back again.
    It was how far he’d go to find her, as many times as needed, but where, dear God where, should he look along the way?
    Forcing his head up, he dried the wretched tears from his face and looked around the room. It